Monday
by Potix
Summary: Bright,chestnut eyes, full of intelligence and comfort. Dexterous fingers,using a scalpel skillfully. A pointy nose - he had heard Mrs Hudson define it cute - and under it, the sweetest smile someone had ever offered him.The portrait of generosity and caring. John's following words, pronounced with cracked voice,were like blood-red paint thrown at it."Molly…Molly is dead, Sherlock"
1. Come back

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

**Creamocrop on Tumblrgave me this prompt: "A groundhog day version of sherlolly where Sherlock repeatedly experiences the day molly dies…so, yes, beware: angst..."**

_And the days they linger on, yeah_  
_Every night I'm waiting for_  
_The real possibility that I may need to end my pain_  
_Sometimes you're there and you're talking back to me_  
_Come the morning I could swear you're next to me_  
_And it's ok_

_It's ok, it's ok_

_I'll be here_  
_Come back, come back_  
_I'll be here_  
_Come back, come back_  
_I'll be here_  
_Come back, come back_

"Come back" - Pearl Jam

* * *

When it happened, he was not in London. It was the first time he had left the city with John after his "resurrection", as the newspapers had called his sudden reappearance in the land of the living. The case was barely a 8, and it involved a former Russian spy, an old posh gentleman and the theft of a super secret software used in nuclear submarines. Mycroft had promised his younger brother that he would not oblige him to attend the next two Christmas parties at the Holmes' , if he could solve the case within the next 24 hours, so it was obvious that Sherlock couldn't lose the opportunity to rightfully avoid his family for two years...

The train had just arrived at Cardiff Central, when he heard John's mobile ring."Greg! I'm sorry but Sherlock and I are not in London right now so it will have to wait-what? When? Oh,no, God no...no she can't be...". Sherlock couldn't hear what the DI was telling to his flatmate and colleague, but if the words John was uttering were not obvious , then how fast his best friends was turning pale, his broken voice, and the single tear that was running down his face were enough evidence for anyone less clever than him to understand that the news were bad. Really bad.

"What happened?"the consulting detective barked, but John only raised a hand, gesturing that Lestrade was still talking. "I- I'll tell him. We'll be back as soon as we can just give us the time to take the next train. Ok, yes-bye Greg". Just as John hung up, Sherlock's phone beeped, signaling a new text.

"A car is waiting for you outside the station. A private jet is ready to bring you back to London- Mycroft"

Mycroft. Not MH, as his brother usually ended his texts. Sherlock knew that he had signed his texts with his birth name only twice: the first time, when he announced him that their father was dead, and the other after his fake death, to offer his help. It couldn't be something related to their mother, because Greg had phoned John, not him. Something bad had happened to someone close to him, and if it wasn't their mother, than it could be only Mrs Hudson, or...

John's voice was laced with sorrow."I need you to sit down, Sherlock..."

"Just tell me,John. Being comfortable won't change whatever it is. What happened?"

"There-there's been...oh God, I'm so sorry Sherlock, I-"

"Tell me what happened!" the consulting detective shouted, and a few people in the waiting room glared at him.

"There's been -a shooting,and..."

"Where?"

"Sherlock, I don't know how to-"

"I asked you where, John". His deep voice was cold,stoic, but John Watson knew that the man in front of him was not insensitive. No more, after his "death". No, the way his bright eyes were almost shining was not because he had already figured all out. This time there would be not applause, no praises for his keen intellect. This time, Sherlock Holmes was waiting for someone to tell him that he was wrong. Oh,how he wanted to tell him that he was not right, but he couldn't. Denying the truth wouldn't let the pain disappear, John knew it.

"St. Barts. At the morgue"

Bright, chestnut eyes, full of intelligence and comfort. Dexterous fingers,using a scalpel skillfully. A pointy nose - he had heard Mrs Hudson define it cute - and under it, the sweetest smile someone had ever offered him. The portrait of generosity and caring. John's following words, pronounced with cracked voice,were like blood-red paint thrown at it.

"Molly...Molly is dead, Sherlock"

* * *

They didn't let him see her. Lestrade made the identification, and called her brother, the only Hopper left now. The shooter...well, he was only a desperate man with a gun. He had lost his wife, a simple operation gone wrong. He wanted to blame someone, and maybe he was right, maybe the surgeon was not focused enough during the surgery...but he couldn't find him, so he went down to the morgue. There he found Molly, performing the autopsy on his wife. He shouted to leave her, to leave his wife alone, and fired. Once, twice...Lestrade told them that Anderson was searching for the cartridge cases. Then the shooter tried to run away, but the hospital security thankfully had managed to block him before he could harm someone else. Someone who was luckier than Molly Hooper, someone that owe his/her life to her.

John had defined him a machine, and like a robot Sherlock listened to Lestrade telling him the facts. There was no mistery to solve, just the victim'ss death to acknowledge. John had tried to comfort him, in his own embarrassed way, but he didn't say anything. They returned home, John carefully broke the news to Mrs Hudson, and together they cried, and mourn her. Sherlock didn't waste a moment with them: he went to his room, stretched out on his rarely used bed, and spent the entire night committing every single memory of his pathologist to his memory, until an entire wing of his mind palace was dedicated to her.

When he opened his eyes again, the clock on his nightstand told him it was seven o'clock. He opened the door to find John calmly eating his breakfast at his desk.

"Hey, you need to prepare your suitcase, we have to catch the train in an hour...". John's voice was cheerful, and Sherlock opened his mouth for the first time since they had left Cardiff the day before.

"Molly...she's..."

"What about her? Please don't tell me that you're forcing her to take care of your experiment at St. Barts...she's a doctor, you know? Not your personal slave..."

How could his best friend, the emotional and caring doctor, being so insensitive? Molly was...wait, did he use the present tense?"She's a doctor"...it was not uncommon for friends and relatives to still use the present when talking about a recent dead person, but it still didn't make much sense...unless...

"What day it is, John?"

"Monday, why?Sherlock, what are you doing, we need to go the station!You can't-"

Sherlock didn't hear his friend shouting at him the rest of the sentence. He was already on the street, hailing a cab for St. Barts. It had been only a nightmare, it was simple like that; it didn't happen often, but after his fall his dream activity had increased slightly. His cellphone was still in his coat. It took Molly only three rings to answer, but her voice was a soft balsam for his ears.

"Sherlock, hello! Do you need something? Oh,sorry, wait a minute...Excuse me, you can't stay here...". He heard her approaching someone, then a male voice shouting "Leave her, leave her alone!". Three gunshots, then just heavy, laboured breathing.

"Molly! Molly, stay with me!", but none answered him.

She was gone.

Again.

**Ok, I decided to do a multichapter out of this prompt. It's emotionally draining for me (and I imagine for every writer) write angst, but it's something new, and I just wanted to try. Let me know what you think, while I try to find the silver lining in all this mess of fellings and tears. **

**Irene (yes, that's my name. Quite ironic for a Sherlolly fan, isn't it?)**


	2. Everything must go

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

**Yes, I'm back. Thanks again to Creamocrop for this prompt, and to everyone who is following, and left me a review, and read the first chapter. I had to write this chapter twice, because ate a part of it, so I'm sorry if it has no sense. And sorry if Sherlock is too OOC, it's really difficult to write something so emotionally draining, and at the same time mantain him in character...**

_And if you need an explanation_  
_Then everything must go_

_I look to the future it makes me cry_  
_But it seems too real to tell you why_

_Freed from the century_  
_With nothing but memory, memory_

"Everything must go" - Manic Street Preachers

* * *

The third time, it was the first time Sherlock saw Molly Hooper die. He was just turning the corner, and was running towards the morgue. He heard Molly's voice, then Mr Sumner shouting...and the gunshots. Three gunshots, then the sound of heavy footsteps, running away.

He had seen hundreds of crime scenes, in his career. Some were almost neat; some gruesome. This scene was pure horror, because for the first time, he knew the victim. Molly Hooper's body was surrounded by blood, and when he kneeled down to check her vitals, he was able to see the last drop of life leaving her eyes. Her pupils, hollow and cold...her skin was still warm, and his fingers, stained with blood, _her blood_, traced an unknown figure on her wrist. No pulse. How many times had he checked her pulse, just by looking at her jugular vein? How many times had he witnessed her skin blushing, her pupils dilating, while simply speaking to her? He didn't know...and his biggest regret, in that moment, was the fact that he had not paid enough attention to all those details. His biggest hope, was that one day the nightmare would stop, but only because he would be able to save her.

Once, it almost happened. Maybe the cab driver was faster than the others, maybe his legs had more stamina...that time, he was able to tackle down Mr Sumner after the first shot. He punched him once, twice,three times, with fast precision (he was a boxeur, he knew exactly where to hit to make more damage as possible)and left him unconscious, the gun discarded on the floor. Molly was still breathing, there was less blood than the other times...and it was then that Sherlock discovered that the first shot was the fatal one.

He pressed one hand against the wound on her neck, praying that someone had heard the shots (since when had he prayed for something to happen?), not trusting his voice to shout for help. He heard the commotion in the hallway, someone was coming, thankfully.

"Sh...Sher..."

"Don't try to speak, Molly...I-I'm here, don't worry". Sherlock Holmes, the man incapable of feelings, trying to comfort the most sensitive person he had ever met: whoever, or whatever was playing with Molly's life, with his life, making him relive that day forever, had surely a sick sense of humour.

"I- I'm dying, Sh-"

"No, you're not. Molly, I-"

Her breath was more laboured, then suddenly it became feeble, and he checked her pulse by instinct. Weak, but still there.

"Move! I'm losing her!" he shouted to the nurse that was coming into the room, his fingers still on her wrist...gone. No pulse.

No Molly.

Again.

* * *

It was the seventh time Sherlock woke up and it was still Monday, that he decided to risk and tell John. He had tried everything: alerting St. Bart's security, to stop Mr Sumners before he could reach Molly; trying to move Mr Sumner's wife to another morgue; ordering Molly to run away...everything in vain.

Maybe John could help. Maybe he could see something his intellect could not detect. Maybe he just needed a friend.

"Hey, you need to prepare your suitcase, we have to catch the train in an hour...". Every day, the same sentence from John welcomed him. It was dreadful, and the evidence that he was still trapped in that hallucination.

"No time. We have to go to . Now"

"Sherlock, your brother..."

"I don't care a damn about my brother! We need to catch the first cab and arrive before it happens!". He ran towards the door, John behind him. "Sherlock, why?"

"I will explain later, now move!"

Obviously, John didn't believe him at first: he tried, of course, but the good doctor just assumed that Sherlock was trying to avoid helping his brother, or worse, that he had overdosed his nicotine patches. It was only when they were out of the elevator, in the morgue's hallway, when they heard the shots, that John understood.

"Do you believe me, now!?" Sherlock shouted to him, before running desperately, trying to reach Molly before it was too late.

The image of Sherlock crouched at Molly's side, his useless attempt at tamponing the wound on her neck with his handkerchief...that desperate man could not be his flatmate, could he?

"Don't stand still, come and help her! You're a doctor,save her!" he plead, but John Watson was a former army doctor: he had witnessed death more than Sherlock, and he knew that there was nothing he could do.

"Sherlock, she-she's..."John's voice trembled, and he felt the tears pooling in his eyes. Molly, sweet, brave Molly...why?"We must call someone..."

"No need...they're coming. First the red-haired nurse, then the janitor...give them three minutes, and the security is going to catch Mr Sumner". As predicted, a ginger woman, an old man with a blue uniform entered the room. Sherlock remained still, his hands red by the blood...his fingers were caressing Molly's skin.

They waited for Lestrade to arrive, and the consulting detective mechanically proceeded to anticipate everything: the DI's words, and then Mrs Hudson crying and mourning, Molly's brother's phone call...

"So it happens to you everyday?" John asked Sherlock later, when they were home, sitting in their armchairs, Sherlock still dirty with Molly's blood on his hands.

"Yes" was his laconic answer.

"Since when?"

"It's a been a week today"

"And it ends always with..." the good doctor couldn't pronounce the words: for him, it had simply just happened, and he found the idea that Molly was gone simply too strange, unbelievable...

"Molly's death? Yes, she always dies...always"

"I don't know what to say, Sherlock. The fact that she's gone, and you have to live it all over again, every time, alone...it's beyond cruelty"

Sherlock simply nodded, his expression unreadable. John Watson had seen Sherlock going hysteric over a case, being frightened by the idea that his brain would fail him in Baskerville...but right now, he couldn't imagine what his best friend was thinking. He knew that Molly had helped him faking his death, and that he had always respected her as a valuable pathologist, but Sherlock's behaviour told him that maybe something else had transpired between them during the years in which he had been dead.

Sherlock's voice interrupted his speculations. "I suggest you go downstairs to console Mrs Hudson- she always takes her death very badly..."

"Sherlock, if there's something that I can do for you..."

"Not for me, for Molly. Help me save Molly Hooper, John. We- I need to save her"

**I'm prepared for your reviews. Thanks for reading, and remember, I'm still searching for the silver lining. Maybe I just need an Ariadne's thread...**


	3. Letting the cables sleep

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

**Yes, I'm updating...shocking news, isn't it? Let me thank first Flavialikestodraw, who had helped me to figure out how to give this story an happy ending, and her mother, who unknowingly gave me an important technical information...Without further ado, the second to last chapter, enjoy it!**

_You in the dark _  
_You in the pain _  
_You on the run_  
_Living a hell_  
_Living your ghost_  
_Living your end_  
_Never seem to get in the place that I belong_

"Letting the cables sleep" - Bush

_"Sherlock, if there's something that I can do for you..."_

_"Not for me, for Molly. Help me save Molly Hooper, John. We- I need to save her"_

* * *

"But how? It's like we are stuck in a maze, and we can't find a way out...you tried everything you could, yet you're still here, trapped..."

"Well, I just need to find an Ariadne's thread...but do me a favour, John"

"Of course, everything...what do you need?"

"Remember. Just remember all this, tomorrow"

* * *

John didn't remember. Obviously. The nightmare had to be his, and his alone.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

"Hey, you need to prepare your suitcase, we have to catch the train in an hour..."

Sherlock was tired, frustrated...three weeks of that torture had drained every ounce of mental energy from him. It was worse than boredom, it was a never-ending agony, a perpetual fight against time, and death. He couldn't stand the vision of Molly's dead body, day after day; the constant toll his intellectual faculties were paying to save her life, was making him apathetic. So he grunted "I'm ready. Let's go to Cardiff".

While on the train, he locked himself in his mind palace,trying to concentrate on the details about the case. He succeeded, and excluded everything: John talking, the sound of the train, the annoying idle gossip of the other people in their compartment. Until the phone call. He knew what it was coming, Lestrade's cracking voice, John's tears...but Mycroft was right._"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage"_. Yes, Molly Hooper was dead...and one day John will die too, like Mrs Hudson, like Lestrade; like Moriarty did. He was the one who had defeated death, once: but one day, the end will claim his life, too. So why waste time, energy, brain cells, into love, friendship, caring? Would caring about others help save them? No. There was nothing logical, nothing rational into loving mortal people: what was the point in them being happy at the moment,if they were going to be sad later?

The sound of the train braking,and consequently stopping,prevented him from continuing his pondering. He stepped off the train counting the seconds that divided him from the imminent phone call. He tried to distance himself also physically from John, to avoid hearing his best friend reacting to Lestrade's words, but in the end, he couldn't. He witnessed once again the shock, the sadness, in John's eyes; he heard him ask the same questions to the DI, and mutter the same dreadful words.

Sherlock heard his cellphone vibrate in his pocket: once again Mycroft informing him that the car was waiting for them outside, and that the plane was ready to bring them back to London. He didn't want to ask John what happened, because it was useless, he already knew...but he did it, anyway. And John told him, again, tears pooling in his eyes-the good doctor repeated to him that Molly, sweet, amazing Molly Hooper was dead.

"We-we need to buy the tickets to go home..."

"Useless" Sherlock disagreed with him."Mycroft sent a car,with that you can reach the airport in no time"

"Oh...well, let's go then". The ex army doctor started to walk, figuring out only after a few steps that the consulting detective remained still. He turned back, and approached him.

"I know you may be shocked, I can't believe it either...but we need to return to London, Sherlock"

"You go. I'm busy"

"Busy?!". John Watson wasn't sure he had heard correctly."What do you mean, busy?"

"The case, John. I need to solve it". Sherlock explained, like it was obvious.

"You need to...?Doesn't- didn't she mean anything to you?". He was bewildered by Sherlock's behaviour."She risked her career, her reputation...she would have sacrificed her own life for you!". The blogger shouted, but it didn't get a rise out of the stoic man in front of him.

"She's dead, Sherlock. Molly is dead. You can't remain here, like nothing happened..."

No reaction, at first. Then Sherlock decided to pronounce the words that he knew would drive John away."All lives end. Molly's life ended tragically, but there's nothing to do about it. Not you, not me, none can change it. Caring is really a disadvantage, John: the sooner you will accept it, the better for you". He saw the horror in his best friend's eyes; the trust, the confidence in him, the admiration, slowly dissolving with every words.

"I thought you had changed...I was wrong. You're still a machine. Stay here on your own, I don't care. Just one thing: when you'll return,I don't know if you would find me at Baker Street. I don't know if I can forgive you this time...Now, if you excuse me, I'm going back home, to my friend Molly. Goodbye, Sherlock". John walked briskly towards the exit, not turning back. He didn't see the lone tear escaping from Sherlock's moist eyes; he didn't hear him whisper "Goodbye, John".

* * *

Sherlock wandered about Cardiff for about an hour, before reaching his client's house. He solved the case in just two hours, but even the thrill caused by solving it in such short time didn't erase the nagging sense of guilt residing in his non-existent heart. He had disappointed John;no, John was more than simply disappointed,that time. It had been selfish, coming to Cardiff to solve that meaningless case, he knew it; but he needed to occupy his hectic mind with something different, with something new, with a puzzle he could actually solve, so he could relish again in the certainty that his mind was still powerful, that he was still able to find a solution to a problem.

He drove John away to demonstrate that he was right, that he could still be himself, the great Sherlock Holmes, the man without a heart-because sentiment complicated everything: it was only a loss of time, of energies, and he was better than the others, he could live alone, without the burden of emotion slowing him down...

Molly was dead...so what? She had encountered her ultimate fate sooner than he could predict; but it could have been because of a car accident on the way to work, or choking on a peanut...he really couldn't do anything about it. He had tried, but he had failed. Even Sherlock Holmes could fail, sometimes.

Then why, why the repeating of that day?And why only for him? "Because I am the only variable in the equation..." he thought, "But what else can I do?".

He spotted a bench,and he discovered that his aimless wandering had lead him to a park. He sat down, his gaze focusing on the other people. An old couple, two teenagers arguing, a man with a dog...and then, in the distance, a young woman pushing a stroller, a seven, or eight months old baby in it. There's something familiar in her, and after a moment, he understood what it was. The jumper. The woman was wearing the same hideous, childish jumper with the cherries that Molly loved so much...suddenly he saw the future that Molly could not have, not anymore: a family, babies, a promotion, a new flat in a better neighborhood...a man by her side. Happiness. Love. Life.

What would Molly do?Could he be strong enough,brave enough,to do the same,to give her a chance to continue her journey?Sherlock Holmes knew the answer...and while he was running towards the station to catch the first train to London, for the first time in two weeks, he finally smiled.

**Only one chapter left...leave a review to let me know what you think, and as always, thank you for reading!**


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